Blight of moon, corset of pine staves around

from the forthcoming book “Mrs. Romanov” about the last Tsar and Tsarina of Russia.

52

we abide in this terrible locked egg of stark workings spring has moved into summer, the closed house

a suffocating teapot, God gone quiet overhead we love differently here

only hands, only on each other’s hearts the machine of our breathing passing back and forth

this one only life, ever punctuated by blood and bleeding, our catastrophic history

this house a void through which some hopeful rescue may yet still pass

a dim external life where we imagine ourselves on earth, in our thin beautiful skins

God reappearing from memory’s ruin stepping into plain fresh air

and walking somewhere our names gone simple on the tongue